
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12885783.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      ジョジョの奇妙な冒険_|_JoJo_no_Kimyou_na_Bouken_|_JoJo's_Bizarre_Adventure
  Relationship:
      Giorno_Giovanna/Pannacotta_Fugo
  Character:
      Giorno_Giovanna, Pannacotta_Fugo, Leone_Abbacchio, Bruno_Buccellati,
      Narancia_Ghirga, Guido_Mista
  Additional Tags:
      Canon_Universe, main_pairing_is_Giorno_and_Fugo, hints_of_Bruno_and
      Abbacchio_if_you_squint, other_characters_are_minor_mentions, Anal_Sex,
      Rimming, improper_use_of_stands, Anal_Fingering, saliva, criminal_amount
      of_metaphor_probably, don't_come_for_me_for_writing_this, rarepair, even
      Pannacotta_Fugo_can_deliver_a_good_ol'_bizarre_dicking, porn_with_a_bit
      of_plot, 4100_words_of_sin
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-02 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 4147
****** What Mere Words Could Never Express ******
by Charmedsevenfold
Summary
     This boy was capable of thinking beyond everything available to him
     in a given situation. There was no making the best of a bad situation
     for Giorno. That was Bruno’s outlook. If the situation was bad,
     Giorno’s solution was to change it. When Fugo first met him, he
     thought that the boy looked weak. How wrong he had been. He never
     wanted to be that wrong ever again. Giorno Giovanna, the only person
     to ever survive his Purple Haze.
Notes
     This fic is set in the events immediately following the Illuso Man in
     the Mirror chapter of Vento Aureo. This fic is a rare pair birthday
     gift for my friend Felidaeth! I plan on writing a second part to
     this, so this is only chapter one. If all goes according to keikaku
     and I write chapter 2, it will be a follow-up occurring in the events
     after Purple Haze Feedback. A huge thanks to my girl Capt_Higashikata
     on IG for being the beta since Felidaeth can't beta his own gift!
As Giorno quickly pulled the car up to the safe-house where Bruno and the
others were waiting, Fugo found himself wondering for the 100th how they’d done
it. Logical analysis told him that they should be dead. Every scenario that he
ran through his mind had resulted in Illuso’s victory. Abbacchio winced next to
him as the vehicle came to a jolting halt. Fugo was certain that Giorno was
simply in a hurry to get the other man to Buccellati while his hand could still
be reattached, but Leone seemed to be characteristically unconvinced.
“Watch it, brat. That fucking hurts!” Giorno said nothing as he exited the car
and made his way around to help his teammate with the door. He offered
Abbacchio a hand, which he pushed away with a sneer. Instead, he got out on his
own, despite his bloody stump of a wrist and the cloth he grasped in his one
good hand- caked in blood from holding the one he himself had amputated while
fighting Illuso. He was still peeved that the blonde teen had been right.
Bruno, Mista, and Narancia ran out to meet them.
“It was only supposed to take an hour. What happened? Did you run into enemy
stand users in Pompeii? You got the key, right?” Leone looked at their capo,
Fugo noticed his expression soften.
“We wouldn’t have returned without carrying out your orders, Buccellati.” Bruno
was about to respond when he noticed Abbacchio’s wound. “We ran into a bit of
trouble.” Understatement of the century. “But we were able to beat him.” No.
Giorno beat him. Bruno couldn’t take his eyes off the other man’s left arm.
“Update me later! I can still fix that but we have to move fast. Narancia,
Mista! Get everything ready. We’re leaving in an hour.” Fugo knew it would have
been sooner if Abbacchio’s injury hadn’t been so substantial. Hell, the man was
lucky that he’d not bled out yet. Giorno handed the key to Mista, then turned
to Bruno.
“What should I do, Buccellati?”
“You and Fugo both should take a break. You look like you need it.” Fugo winced
as he remembered how many blows he’d sustained in Illuso’s mirror world without
his stand to fight back. He was surprised none of his ribs were broken. Giorno
nodded reluctantly. He must have still been somewhat shaken from the encounter
to relent at all, even if he didn’t outwardly show it. Half of the time Fugo
didn’t know what to make of him, but he was beginning to sort it out. Giorno
Giovanna. He’d only known him a short while, yet he’d refused to prioritize the
mission over rescuing Fugo. Some small part of him hoped it was not just out of
fear of making a move before fully understanding Illuso’s ability. Some small
part of him hoped that Giorno cared about him- as a comrade and a friend of
course. Abbacchio had been prepared to put the mission first no matter what.
Fugo knew that the man only felt at peace when following orders; he was a
soldier at heart. Fugo couldn’t fault him for that. He was right after all; in
this world Fugo’s life was disposable, he was simply a tool for Passione to use
as it saw fit. Something about it still stung though, and he hated that he let
it get to him. Even Illuso had prioritized getting the key over killing him.
Only Giorno had put him first.
In the end, whether motivated by personal feelings or not, Giorno had made the
correct choice. After getting pulled into the mirror, even Abbacchio knew as
much- though he’d never admit it. Fugo followed the younger teen inside the
house. There was something he needed to ask him, but as he stared at the
elegantly braided hair in front of him, he couldn’t quite find the words.
Abbacchio had cut off his own hand for the sake of the mission, but it had been
Giorno who was truly the most dedicated, the most willing to do whatever was
necessary, the one prepared to die the most painful death imaginable. Giorno
had thought through every detail, even enabling Fugo a way to detect Illuso
outside of the mirror, a way to kill him – level-headed even as his body began
to deteriorate. He’d willingly subjected himself to the incarnation of
everything which Fugo hated about himself- willingly infected his body with the
virus from Fugo’s stand. Giorno had given life to a creature in the midst of
the virus, imbuing it with immunity that he could use to cure himself, but that
had been a huge gamble. Somehow everything had played right into his hand.
Giorno Giovanna, the only person who had ever survived Purple Haze. It was then
that Fugo realized how fully and completely he could put his trust in the other
teen. It hit him with a force more severe than any punch he’d ever sustained;
it was a trust which could never be expressed in mere words.
He’d followed Giorno to the top of the stairs without realizing it. The boy
stopped and turned suddenly, gold braid flipping over his shoulder as he did
so. “Do you need something, Fugo?”
“Can we speak privately?” He was suddenly very conscious of his teammates
downstairs. He disliked feeling exposed during moments of vulnerability. Giorno
nodded, leading the older teen into a nearby room and shutting the door. He
turned and stared at Fugo expectantly. His blue eyes, soft yet intense, seemed
to bore sharp holes into Fugo’s skull. He swallowed, shifting nervously before
speaking.
“How? How can you be so certain about yourself- about your decisions?” The
words fell from his lips hastily and ineloquently, but he could think of no
other way to ask. Giorno’s delicate brows furrowed.
“I think you are overcomplicating it, Fugo.” Would it have been anyone else,
those words would have sounded condescending, but coming from Giorno they were
soothing. Fugo hung on every syllable. “When I make a choice, I often don’t
know with complete certainty that it’s the right one until the end.” Fugo felt
like he never knew, not even in the end. “All one can do is analyze things
rationally and with an open mind. The key is, once you choose, not to doubt
yourself. I know that’s easier said than done, though.” The boy smiled
slightly. The gesture was small, but overwhelmingly genuine, there was a real
kindness in his eyes. Somehow Fugo felt less vulnerable. The selfish part of
him that wanted to believe Giorno did not abandon him because the boy cared
about him was beginning to win. Fugo knew that the teen cared for everyone,
though. That was who he was. Giorno continued.
“Often, no matter what you choose, as long as you commit your whole heart to
it, and commit with confidence, it can be spun to your advantage.” This boy was
capable of thinking beyond everything available to him in a given situation.
There was no making the best of a bad situation for Giorno. That was Bruno’s
outlook. If the situation was bad, Giorno’s solution was to change it. When
Fugo first met him, he thought that the boy looked weak. How wrong he had been.
He never wanted to be that wrong ever again. He wanted to express to Giorno how
deeply he respected him, admired him, and envied his self-assurance and
patience. For all his high IQ Fugo’s EQ was virtually non-existent. He’d never
met anyone with so much control, he craved that kind of control. How to express
it? He raked his hands through his bangs in frustration, pushing them briefly
off his forehead only for them to fall back in front of his eyes a moment
later. Giorno took a step towards him, touching his arm in a gesture of
apology.
“Are you alright? I didn’t mean to talk down to you.” The boy was so
considerate. He was so considerate that it hurt. No one had ever put him first-
put his feelings first, not even his own parents as they demanded more and more
and more of him like he would never- no, should never be capable of breaking.
The places where the other’s fingers rested delicately on his bicep buzzed and
hummed electrically under his skin like a live wire. He could hear his pulse in
his ears. Giorno had saved his life. Abbacchio had been right but Giorno had
been righteous. Fugo reached up and grabbed the hand on his bicep. The other
boy watched measuredly, seeming to wonder if he’d crossed a line and if Fugo
would push his hand away. Instead, the silver-haired boy brought the hand
toward his face. Giorno’s eyes went wide with sincere surprise as Fugo pressed
a firm kiss to his knuckles.
“Fugo…” The voice was quiet and questioning. Fugo lifted the petite hand
higher, resolutely placing another kiss on the inside of his wrist in response.
It smelled vaguely and pleasantly of perfume. He did not protest, so Fugo
continued, holding those words at the front of his mind, commit your whole
heart to it, commit with confidence. If I cannot explain it, I will show him.
Another press of the lips- this time slightly parted, warm, damp breath
tickling the skin. Giorno inhaled audibly. Fugo would have peppered kisses all
the way along the boy’s arm were it not for the expensive dupioni fabric
covering the skin from the wrist up. He held Giorno’s steady hands in his own,
which shook visibly.
“Fugo this isn’t really necessary…” He locked eyes with Fugo, but his voice
quivered ever so slightly. A less observant person might not have even noticed
it at all. This was the most rattled he’d ever seen the other boy.
“I know but…can I?” Giorno looked at him for a moment, considering the
implications, motivation, and outcome of whatever it was that Fugo wanted to
express before nodding measuredly. When he took a step forward the other boy
did not back away. When he cupped a hand gently along his jaw the other boy
seemed to lean into it ever so slightly. The acknowledgement, the subtle
reciprocation, the magnanimity of the action was overwhelming. Fugo leaned in,
slowly, hesitantly closing the space between them. His breath came ragged as he
pressed his lips to Giorno’s. For a moment the younger boy was deadly still and
Fugo wondered if he’d made a mistake. Self-doubt sparked in the back of his
mind like a stubborn candle he couldn’t put out. He wished desperately for
Giorno’s confidence and composure. Commit completely, he told himself. His
other hand snaked around Giorno’s waist, resting on the small of his back. He
felt it, barely there at first, the gentle push of soft, full lips back against
his own. A moment later he felt Giorno’s hands, one on the back of his neck,
the other tangling in his hair. He felt weak in the knees at the definitive
reciprocation. Giorno let Fugo lead the kiss, let him have control, and Fugo
craved more of that feeling.
In his mind he felt undeserving but he pushed those thoughts far away as he
opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. He ran his tongue along Giorno’s lips,
who opened his mouth in response. Fugo slid his tongue inside. He didn’t have
much first-hand knowledge, but he’d seen people kiss like this plenty of times
in movies. Giorno’s mouth was slick and hot. Though his mind was cloudy, he
noticed offhandedly that the other boy’s breath smelled pleasant to him, which
he’d read was an indicator of compatibility. But you’ll never be worthy of him,
he thought. Again, the feeling was forced down as he began to explore Giorno’s
mouth. He was inexperienced and eager, but Giorno didn’t seem to mind. Fugo
took his hand off the boy’s face, sliding it down his back to rest above his
other hand before greedily pulling him close. Every place their bodies touched
seemed to burn. He couldn’t tell if the heat was from Giorno, himself, or the
un-air-conditioned room but his blood ran like lava in his veins, feeling as
though he might melt from the inside out in blissful mimicry of Purple Haze’s
ravaging virus.
Giorno tugged at his hair, well-manicured nails grazing his scalp. Fugo moaned
softly at that. This wasn’t enough. This would never be enough. Fugo
experienced the force of everything he felt, but would never be able to say,
bubble up in his chest, threatening to overflow and drown him. He tugged at
Giorno’s suit, breaking the kiss for a moment. A string of saliva trailed
between Fugo’s mouth and the boy’s now swollen lips. His cheeks and ears were
flushed a soft shade of red. He made eye contact with Fugo as he unzipped his
jacket, the jewel blue of his eyes shone intensely in the small rings that
surrounded his now blown pupils. Fugo swallowed heavily, unbuttoning and
stripping off his own top. He raked his eyes reverently over Giorno’s bare
chest and flat stomach and suddenly felt self-conscious of his own exposed
torso. The two boys were the same height, and both were toned, but Fugo was
decently underweight and pale in comparison to Giorno’s healthier, fuller body
and sun-kissed skin.
He hastily swallowed his reservations as he noticed the slight bump in the
other boy’s pants. Giorno was aroused. Fugo had done that to him. The
realization shot directly to the base of his spine, curling there with a
hellishly pleasurable heat. Fugo grabbed him again, hands moist and sticky with
anxious sweat sliding on the slim waist. He dug his fingers into Giorno’s skin
as he leaned forward, locking his lips onto the boy’s neck. He sighed and
turned his head, giving Fugo more room to work. He laved a hot strip along the
juncture of his neck and shoulder before biting down. This time Giorno gasped
his name.
“Fugo…” Oh god, did that sound good.
“Is this okay?” His voice was husky and cracked a bit. He cursed how pathetic
he sounded. Not a single fiber in his being wanted to stop, but he needed to
ask. He wanted Giorno, in all his grace, confidence, and strength, to want this
too.
“Yes” he sighed, it sounded hot and breathy in Fugo’s ear. He shivered, mouth
going dry; it was all the affirmation he needed. His lips were on Giorno’s
again, less exploratory and more forceful and insistent this time. He ran his
hands over the other stand user’s body, as if trying to map his small, lean
muscles with touch alone. He pulled Giorno as close as he could, damp skin on
damp skin. It would never be close enough. He wanted to feel the boy’s personal
power, confidence, and certainty permeate his body. He was thankful for the
overpowering strawberry scent of his shampoo. Otherwise he’d probably reek
after having bled, sweat, and been beaten into the ground by Illuso. He settled
his hands on Giorno’s chest, rubbing soft, feather light circles on the boy’s
pert nipples with his blunt nails. The pinpoint intense stimulation must have
driven the younger boy crazy; drool ran down Fugo’s chin from the kiss as
Giorno responded heatedly to the ministrations. He seemed to be a generally
quiet partner but that forced Fugo to pay closer attention to what he responded
to. Fugo loved a challenge to keep himself occupied.
A moment later and they were on the ground. Fugo had one leg between Giorno’s,
knee pressing and rubbing against the boy’s crotch as he fumbled with the
button on his suit pants. He moved away for a moment, but only to strip the
expensive cloth off Giorno’s body. Fugo palmed him now through the soft
material of his underwear and Giorno’s hips gave an involuntary jerk. Slowly,
steadily, the boy’s composure was breaking down. Fugo wanted to see it, wanted
it to happen by his hands. He watched Giorno’s face intensely as he began to
fondle him more purposefully, squeezing and rubbing the shaft of his dick.
Small moans fell from his parted lips that made Fugo groan and grind his own
clothed erection against one of Giorno’s sharply protruding pelvic bones. The
open display of desperation seemed to spur the younger teen on. He reached up
and tangled both hands in Fugo’s hair, not content to simply allow himself to
be watched. He pulled the other Passione member’s face down, kissing him
harshly, letting Fugo swallow his soft noises.
Fugo felt that his own capabilities paled in comparison to the boy beneath him.
He was so used to readily finding flaw with the people he worked alongside, so
used to feeling frustrated by their incapability. Giorno was a person with a
virtuous spirit, a person who only had room to grow. Fugo felt as if he’d done
nothing but spiral and regress for years. The feeling of unworthiness, of being
undeserving, crept up again in his stomach, twisting like a hot knife. Another
soft moan brought him back to earth. He had a chance to make Giorno feel good,
to express the admiration, trust, and respect that he could not, for all his
intelligence, put into words. Equally as important to Fugo was the chance to
see Giorno, normally so graceful and calculated, be vulnerable. He desperately
wanted to understand him. The fact that Giorno was allowing him this chance
made him feel breathless. Fugo stopped to hook his fingers under the waistband
of the boy’s underwear. Giorno lifted his hips, allowing them to be pulled off.
Fugo knew he was only in this position because Giorno allowed it, knew that
each step further they went only occurred because Giorno allowed it, knew that
each act of reciprocation on Giorno’s part was carefully considered. Yet, he
had allowed Fugo to take the lead. He had allowed Fugo control.
He placed a hand on the boy’s rapidly rising and falling chest. He could feel
the hammering of his heart. He admired Giorno’s naked body for a moment. The
light gold of his hair made his body appear smooth and nearly bare save for a
thin trail starting several centimeters below his bellybutton, and terminating
in a well-maintained patch of darker gold pubic hair. He gripped the soft meat
of Giorno’s upper thigh tightly, watching his dick give a slight twitch before
releasing his hand and pulling away. He wanted to know how much Giorno trusted
him back. Giorno watched him carefully through hooded eyes as Fugo put
everything on the line. Wordlessly, he called out Purple Haze. He could hear
the rush of his own blood in his ears. He held his breath as he watched his
stand. It loomed over Giorno’s exposed figure, huffing and looking around
before locking its clouded, bloodshot eyes with Giorno’s. Fugo couldn’t tear
his own eyes away from the scene, his heart beat so intensely that the lack of
oxygen in his blood was quickly beginning to make his head spin. He felt like
he might pass out.
Giorno wasn’t afraid of it. He didn’t panic or try to run like everyone else.
He didn’t even flinch away. Fugo’s dick all but throbbed in his underwear. He’d
survived Purple Haze once before. Perhaps he might even have antibodies to
combat the virus held in the capsules on its fists. Fugo wasn’t sure. It didn’t
matter. Purple Haze could still kill him regardless, and he trusted him not to.
Giorno pulled the tie from his braid. Fugo watched, mesmerized, as his hair
began to halfway unwind, golden tresses draping across the dirty floor about
his head like a halo in a Byzantine mosaic. The tie began to morph and sprout
into a flower. A camellia. A Japanese flower and a symbol of steadfastness and
grace. He placed it in the crook of Purple Haze’s ear. The stand, which often
seemed to have a mind of its own, chuffed in appreciation. The imagery reminded
Fugo of a photograph he’d seen once in a book: America, 1967, a march on the
Pentagon, a protestor, clad in white, placing a carnation in the barrel of a
military police rifle. Fugo was shaken. His stand, obeying his desires, began
to move down Giorno’s body. The sharp tip of its plague doctor-esque facemask
dragged along Giorno’s torso and abdomen, causing him to pant. Fugo knew what
would happen next. Purple Haze hooked its arms under Giorno’s slim legs, easily
lifting his abdomen, partially folding the boy’s lithe body in on itself.
Because of the stand’s mask covering the upper part of its face, this was the
only angle that would work.
Purple Haze gripped Giorno’s full ass cheeks harshly before pulling them apart
and slipping its tongue through the bars on its lips, probing and laving at the
ring of muscle. Giorno threw his arm over his face and bit the knuckle of his
other hand, stifling a cry as precum began to leak from the head of his flushed
dick onto the tight muscles of his stomach that shifted and contracted under
the skin. Purple Haze salivated a lot, something that normally disgusted Fugo,
but it was being put to good use as lubricant right now. He could feel the heat
on his face. He could feel everything that Purple Haze felt. Fugo ground the
heel of his palm painfully into his member and moaned loudly, but he dared not
begin to get himself off, he dared not focus on anything but Giorno as he
writhed under his stand’s dripping, persistent mouth. Purple Haze pulled away,
the normally finicky stand that compulsively hated to dirty itself lathered
saliva onto its own fingers before sliding one into Giorno’s ass. It took all
of Fugo’s willpower to force Purple Haze to work slowly and extremely
carefully, not wanting to hurt Giorno and not wanting to break the capsules on
its knuckles. The stand inserted a second finger, scissoring and prodding
gently.
The angle was excellent, making it easy to reach his prostate. Giorno’s toes
curled in the air and his nails clawed and scraped at the dusty wooden
floorboards as he all but keened into his hand, stifling the cry from those
downstairs. Fugo thought he might cum right then like a horny teen masturbating
for the first time, but he willed it down. He watched, spellbound, as Purple
Haze, often difficult to control, obeyed his every desire. It slid its fingers
out of Giorno’s ass, saliva dripping obscenely from the digits. Giorno looked
utterly debauched as the stand gripped the boys hips, looming over his still
half-folded body as it lined it’s pelvis up with his entrance. Fugo knew that
under the cloth that draped over its abdomen his stand had the vestige of a
sexual organ. He wasn’t sure if Purple Haze could feel anything, but it
responded in kind with his own sexual arousal. It pushed into Giorno painfully
slowly. As Fugo watched he could feel every second of it, nearly doubling at
the tight, slick heat squeezing up his still-clothed dick centimeter by
centimeter. He rut his hips against nothing, watching through blurry eyes as
Giorno willingly allowed himself to be fucked by what Fugo perceived as the
most irredeemable part of his heart. Stands reflect their users, and Giorno had
accepted this part of Fugo with ease. His legs hooked around the humanoid
figure, encouraging it to speed up as he panted heavily, biting down on his
knuckle hard enough to draw spots of blood.
Coils of heat wracked his body as he hedonistically willed his stand to assault
Giorno’s prostate several feet away. Fugo could feel sweat trickle down his
forehead and neck from the effort, yet he hardly moved at all. The pleasure
that wound itself tightly at the base of his spine shot rapturous tendrils
furling through the pit of his stomach and thighs. Giorno finished with a
muffled cry, drooling onto the floor, golden pin curls half-wrecked, strands
sticking to his sweat-slick face. Fugo came in his pants. He hastily willed his
stand to disappear as the stimulation that squeezed him dry through his orgasm
became too much. Giorno lay on the floor gasping as cum slid slowly down the
sides of his stomach toward the floor. Fugo shuffled over to him, utterly spent
but unwilling to waste any chance to show his reverence. He leaned down drawing
his tongue across the boy’s stomach in long intentional strips, licking it
clean. Giorno watched him wide-eyed, breathing heavily through parted lips.
Fugo met his gaze as he massaged soothing circles into Giorno’s hips with his
thumbs. Neither of them said anything. They probably wouldn’t discuss this.
Giorno’s eyes, no longer foggy with need, showed understanding. That’s all that
mattered. He’d grasped what mere words could never express.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
